


Rain

by Medie



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-09
Updated: 2010-02-09
Packaged: 2017-10-07 03:44:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/61070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Medie/pseuds/Medie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At least her way, when the monster comes knocking, he's going to find a fight waiting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rain

**Author's Note:**

> written for a prompt from [](http://azephirin.livejournal.com/profile)[**azephirin**](http://azephirin.livejournal.com/) which was Jo Harvelle, quietly.

Gently, gently, fly under the radar, head down. Whatever euphemism you choose, Jo knows the score. Its open season and she makes a pretty target. Anyone with Winchester connections is running for the hills and Jo, with roadhouse's smoke still choking her out, runs farther and faster than all the rest.

There's no help to be had. The network of hunters is starting to crumble and break under the demonic onslaught, not that it matters to Jo. They never were much help. She's too young, and too pretty, and too _normal_ in their eyes to make it as a hunter. Pretty little girls with pretty little knives don't make good hunters, they make good bait, and she stopped listening to bullshit like five minutes after she left home. She might not have known much then, has learned more now, but she knew enough.

At least her way, when the monster comes knocking, he's going to find a fight waiting. Mom raised her right, whatever else their differences are, and Jo just hopes they live long enough, get it together enough, that she can have a chance to _tell_ her that.

"Probably not," mutters Jo, sliding into a booth. Outside, the rain and sleet are competing for time, turning the roads into a dicey mess for pedestrian and driver alike. She looks out in time to see an SUV nearly take out a group of teenagers. She winces sympathetically until, for just a moment, one of them looks her way. In the space between heartbeats, Jo can't tell if the shadows in his eyes are just that or one of _them_.

She tenses, ready to run, when he blinks and waves at a cop, and she can breathe again.

A waitress puts a cup of coffee before her, saying, "You look like you need it, honey."

Jo cups the mug, the ceramic feeling scorching hot against her chilled skin, and nods. The heat gentles, her hands warming up, and she lets herself start to relax. "You have no idea." She tries to smile normally. "It's hell out there."

"Don't I know it," says the waitress. "I'll get you some pie, on the house." She pats Jo's shoulder and walks away, white sneakers squeaking against the spotless floor.

Taking a moment, Jo sips the coffee and looks at the diner around her. It's not empty, more than a few people hiding out from the weather, but no one is looking her way. She lowers her eyes, watching them from beneath her lashes, and waits for a telltale glance or move. Anything that'll give them away.

"Not paranoia if they're really out to get you," she murmurs. A pitiful excuse for a laugh slips out and she puts down the mug to pull her hair, limp and straggly from the weather, away from her neck. She tilts her head back, twisting and tucking her hair around a pencil, and again looks around.

The corner booth by the window is the best position she could get. The door is in front of her, the other tables all in plain sight, if anyone makes a move; she's got a fighting chance. It wouldn't be the first time she's needed it. A demon in New England got too close when she stopped to eat. She's not making the same mistake twice.

"Mom always said I learned too damn fast." At least it came in handy. Jo bites her lip, reaches for the mug again, and tries not to wish for her mother. They can't communicate in anything more than half-sentences, messages passed to different hunters here and there, the few they're still talking to. It's not much, but at least they can know the other's still alive.

It's all they can manage these days.

"Here," says the waitress – Gloria – putting the pie before her. She's older than Jo, but not by much. "Eat up. There's another one waiting for you." She drifts away again, refilling another customer's coffee, and Jo watches her go. There's a niggling suspicion, one that she's too tired to be having, and she keeps watching.

They've tried helping her before too. Just long enough to put the knife in her back. Her _own_ knife. She hunches her shoulders, remembering the kid coming at her, knife flashing silver quick through the air, and the sound of her jacket tearing as she twisted away.

Jo's fingers tighten around her fork, can feel the force of her own fingers driving into a stomach, pushing steel ahead of them.

She swallows the soft apple feeling like sawdust as it slides down her throat and washes it down with a gulp of coffee. She's not hungry, but she needs to eat. Chances at it come few and far between. Food, gas, and then she's back out again. There are bodies turning up on the other side of town with ritual carvings and no one paying much attention.

They're not stopping, so neither is she. Not much else to do anyway other than curl up in a motel and wait for them to catch up. She's never been patient enough for that anyway.

They'll catch her. It's inevitable. There are just too many of them and too many bodies to hide out in. She can't keep her eyes open forever and there's no one safe enough for backup. They'll catch up, but she's going to burn through as many of them as she can before they do.

The bell over the door jingles, someone coming in. He's young, scruffy, water sliding off his raincoat to puddle around his feet. Gloria's head turns, eyes narrowing briefly, then she smiles and nods.

The newcomer nods back, finding a seat a table nearby. He doesn't look at Jo, doesn't do anything to say he knows she's there, but something tingles along Jo's spine and she straightens. The gun in her pocket is loaded. The knife in the other's been liberally dosed with holy water, blessed by a couple priests, and she thinks she stands a chance of getting to the door.

"It isn't like that."

Gloria's voice, sympathetic and gentle in her ear, makes her jump, fingers clattering the fork against her plate. Jo looks up at her, seeing something in those dark eyes that makes her freeze, and relax, all the same.

"Don't look so surprised, Joanna Beth," Gloria says, sitting down. She slides one hand over the other, calloused palms brushing together. "It's the nature of the world. If they exist, so do we."

"Couldn't tell it from what's going on out there."

Gloria grins. "You're still alive aren't you?" She sits back, crossing her legs, smoothing her pink skirt over her knees. "That should count for something."

"Yeah, for me," says Jo. "I saved myself." Can't depend on anyone else to do it. She's learned that much. "Me."

Gloria nods. "Mostly, that's true." She drums fingers on the table, following the rhythm of a tune Jo's never heard before. "People never really understand us well." She nods toward the outside. "Smiley faced cherubs and, well, -- " she sighs. "Pick a television show, you can see it for yourself."

"Never did get into those," says Jo. "Too unrealistic."

"Mostly." Gloria nods. "We're much more subtle than that. Flashy light shows are so Old Testament." She leans forward, resting her forearms on the table. "We're also not fluffy cherubs sitting on clouds. The real situation is far gritter than that."

Jo scowls. "What? No shining perfection on the other side?"

Gloria doesn't smile, but Jo can sense the amusement. "It's far more complicated than that. There are no concepts, or words, that can describe there. Even having seen it for myself, lived an eternity there, I can't."

She stands, wiping down the table. "Now, if you'll excuse me, but there's an angel in need of lemon meringue."

"Okay, so no cities of gold, damn," says Jo. "So what? I'm supposed to care?"

A few steps away, Gloria looks over her shoulder, smiling wide, "No. You're supposed to eat your pie."


End file.
